


This Nasty Habit of Surviving

by sapphose



Series: Terok Nor AU [5]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Exile Julian, Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Alternate Universe - Terok Nor, Angst, Dabo boy Julian AU, Enabran Tain's A+ Parenting, Exile, Exile Julian AU, M/M, Occupation of Bajor, Pre-Canon, Terok Nor (Star Trek), Terok Nor AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-15 23:42:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28821678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphose/pseuds/sapphose
Summary: Change is coming to Terok Nor, and everyone is waiting for news of what comes next.
Relationships: Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Series: Terok Nor AU [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1995967
Comments: 153
Kudos: 128





	1. History is Moving Quickly

**Author's Note:**

> Once more, chapter and fic title are famous Bond quotes.

Change was in the air.

Julian could feel it coming. It was hard to miss the signs. Kira had gone, for one thing. She gave as much information as she ever did, saying only that she had found another job down on Bajor. He shouldn’t have been surprised; security on the station was getting more and more restrictive, and the Resistance cell could only operate right under Dukat’s nose for so long before being sniffed out.

Julian had tried to ask, clumsily, if she had friends coming aboard that he should keep an eye out for. Predictably, Kira refused to name names.

 _Walk with the Prophets_ , had been her goodbye , and then- _We’ll see each other again_.

Julian wouldn’t have called her a friend in the traditional sense of the word, but he missed her all the same. She was intense and forthright, and she had no room in her world for uncertainty. He had admired her strength, her clarity of purpose.

He hoped they would both survive long enough to meet again, as she had promised.

The change was felt outside of the Bajoran Quarter as well. The Cardassians were on edge. In the bar, they gambled less and were more unwilling to speak to aliens. They sat around the tables having muted conversations with taut faces and rigid postures. Quark forbade his employees to talk about it (apparently, discussing how business was bad was bad for business), but his nephew Nog claimed to have seen Quark researching shuttle rides back to Ferenginar.

On Julian’s last visit to Bajor, Naprem had asked him about shuttle travel, and whether inoculations could be trusted to protect Ziyal if she was brought to another world.

Even Garak seemed affected. He had actually been sewing the last time Julian came to visit him. It wasn’t that Garak couldn’t sew- he had, ostensibly, made at least some of the products in his shop- but Julian had never actually _seen_ any of them being produced.

Garak was also distracted, or as distracted as Julian had ever seen him. While they were talking, that piercing glance would sometimes go out of focus, and Julian would have to repeat whatever point he was making for Garak to disagree with. Garak always came back, and fixed Julian with the gaze that gave his stomach the swooping feeling of falling from a great height, but Julian still noticed the lapse.

It was disquieting, to say the least. Something was coming.

Julian just wasn’t sure what, or when.

Garak believed, whole-heartedly, in the superiority of Cardassia. He never doubted that his purpose was to be a tool in service of the glory of the Cardassian Union.

That said, he was not a fool. After half a century of time and wasted resources beyond reckoning, Bajor had proven to be unsuitable for colonization. Withdrawal was inevitable, as soon as the idiots at Central Command swallowed their pride.

The signs were there: less resources committed to the surface, denied requests for funding or personnel. Soldiers were transferred elsewhere and not replaced. Camps received more and more extreme orders; important prisoners were transported off-planet. Even the dullest gil could not miss that it was only a matter of time until all troops were recalled.

And if the fools in the lower ranks of the military knew, then Enabran Tain must have known for longer even than Garak.

Which begged the question: why had Garak not received his next set of orders?

Tain did not procrastinate until the last minute. He did like to keep subordinates uncomfortable, but that usually meant making them wait outside of his office, not in the field. Particularly not when they were in as passive a position as Garak currently held. He was an Observer, present primarily for intimidation rather than information, to remind Dukat that the Order was always watching.

Garak had been working on Prime for years, in the heart of the Obsidian Order, as an Inquisitor. This placement, although nominally a lateral move, had been a punishment for what Tain deemed insufferable impudence and what Garak considered healthy curiosity. Garak didn’t grovel well, but he had done his time. Surely now Tain would recall him?

Garak was useful. He knew it, and Tain knew it. As he sat and sewed to keep himself productive, ever the child of a housekeeper, he tried to remind himself that even if Tain was content to let him dangle, he would return to serve. It was only a matter of time


	2. There Is No World Without Her Walls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garak gets news, and Julian gets an unexpected visitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're moving from Bond quotes to Shakespeare. Specifically, Romeo and Juliet Act 3 Scene 3: "There is no world without Verona walls but purgatory, torture, hell itself. Hence banished is banished from the world."

Two messages came in the early hours of the morning under five separate layers of encryption each. Garak tore through them impatiently. Nothing in the codes, file size, or missive length indicated anything out of the ordinary. No maps or coordinates attached, which meant he was not being sent to an unfamiliar location, a probable indicator that he was being returned to Cardassia.

The first message was headed with an alphanumeric sequence designating it as an announcement to all agents, an unusual occurrence. The contents were even more alarming. Enabran Tain was retiring from directorship of the Obsidian Order. Information about the succession plan would be forthcoming.

It was unprecedented. No one who had ever held his position had survived long enough to resign, and they were certainly too dangerous for Central Command to feel comfortable with them reintegrating into civilian life.

No mention was made of who his heir would be. Garak turned to the second message with trepidation.

Tain had never promised anything, of course. It wasn’t in his nature. But he had, at times, hinted, with the necessary subtlety, and Garak, while not particularly optimistic, was clever enough to see that he would be a potential candidate, between his own competence and Tain’s need for a legacy (even an illegitimate one).

It could easily not be Garak. It could be Entek or Dejar or Korinas. There were other agents, of varying degrees of cleverness and trustworthiness.

There was nothing for it but to open the second message.

Julian was getting ready for bed, and debating the merits of tea. He had a small stash, and a nice steaming cup of tea could be just the thing to help him sleep, which had proven elusive the past few nights. On the other hand, the more tea he drank now, the less he had for the future. His preferred blends were difficult to come by in Cardassian space, and it was difficult to justify spending money on himself when he could see the need of every Bajoran he passed. On the _other_ other hand, one couldn’t pour from an empty cup and all that; he was of no use to anyone if he didn’t sleep.

It was a circuitous argument, and it left Julian staring at his supply and tapping his toes in indecision.

The familiar sound came at that moment. The thud against the door- as if they had kicked it, this time- and the whoosh of an override open. Julian spun on his heel, ready for a gruff voice barking about Order 273 and ordering him out so they could search the premises.

Instead, what he saw nearly caused him to lose his balance in the turn.

“Garak?”

Garak smiled pleasantly.

“I apologize for barging in so late, but I’m in need of some assistance.” He held out his hands, and Julian stared.

It was an odd sense of deja vu. How long ago had Kira come in the night, burns on her hands from her mysterious work, nearly silent in excruciating pain?

Garak wasn’t in the Resistance. He couldn’t be. Julian wasn’t sure which side, exactly, Garak was on, but it was not the same as Kira.

How had he overridden the door?

“You need to go to the infirmary,” Julian said, instead of asking one of the many questions tumbling around his mind.

Kira’s skin had gone red and white. The skin on Garak’s palms was mottled dark brown and charcoal gray, with some hideous hints of pink in the swelling blisters, which oozed an off-white liquid that could not indicate anything positive.

“Impossible,” Garak said, and how the hell was he so calm when his hands were nearly destroyed?

“What do you mean, impossible? Garak, this is an emergency, we have to get you there as soon as possible.” Julian stepped forward to lead Garak out, but Garak prevented it by holding a hand to his chest, knuckles against Julian’s sternum.

An ordinary patient would be at least wincing from the pressure. But Garak only let out a long, low hiss. Julian wasn’t familiar with the sound, but it didn’t seem pained. Almost… the opposite?

“I’m afraid, my dear, that if we go to the infirmary, they may make some entirely unwarranted assumptions that the state of my hands is somehow connected to a defense mechanism in the security systems that was recently activated. A coincidence, of course, but I don’t have the time for their tiresome questions.” His voice was clear and lucid, as undisturbed as if they were discussing literature over lunch.

Julian was not an expert on Cardassian anatomy, but he was fairly certain that their threshold for pain was not universally this high. Unless Garak was in some sort of state of shock?

“Garak…” If he wasn’t in the Resistance, then what was he doing? “Why did you come here?”

“Well, I thought to myself, where does one go when they need healing late at night without too many questions asked? To Julian, of course.”

A statement that only prompted more questions.

“Who told you that?”

“No one. I’m simply very observant.” There was some kind of subtext layered in there, some kind of private joke that Garak seemed to find amusing, but Julian couldn’t begin to fathom what it was. Instead, he focused on what he knew: Garak was badly injured, and Julian didn’t have the tools to heal him properly.

“I can’t repair the damaged tissues without a dermal regenerator.”

“Luckily, I happen to have one with me. I would have healed myself, but I’m rather useless at the moment.” Garak turned to the side, showcasing the handle of a dermal regenerator sticking out of his pocket.

Julian took it carefully, recalling the flood of memories that had hit him when he held a medical scanner for the first time since exile. This was not the moment to get swept away in painful recollections.

“Why do you have this?” It certainly wasn’t standard issue for Promenade merchants.

“Oh, I have a tendency to stick myself while sewing,” Garak dismissed the question airily. “You do know how to use it, don’t you?”

It wasn’t Federation, but Julian was fairly sure he could utilize it without causing more harm.

This was mad. It was one thing for Kira, who he knew was engaged in illegal activities all across the station for the good of her people. But when it came down to it, Julian knew almost nothing about Garak. What had he been doing that had activated the security systems, and for what purpose? How had he overridden the door? Would security officers come looking for him, and consider Julian an accessory to whatever crime had been committed?

Did any of that truly matter, in the face of an injured person- a friend, if Julian were being honest with himself- in need of help?

“Hold still,” Julian said, and set to healing.


	3. Be Merciful, Say Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian heals Garak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Romeo and Juliet, Act 3 Scene 3. "Be merciful, say death, for exile hath more terror in his look, much more than death."

The experience of having the implant activated was difficult to describe. The Order doctors hadn’t tried. Their terse explanation had included only its purpose, to prevent him from feeling the pain of torture so that he would not be tempted to reveal information. In the absence of more explicit information, Garak had expected it to produce numbness.

He was wrong. It didn’t just prevent pain. It felt _good_. Like someone had lowered the gravity and turned up the heat, like relaxing in a sauna that the enemy couldn’t access, like a relaxation Garak wasn’t sure he felt even in the deepest sleep. The colors were richer, the world deeper, and everything seemed less important than it had before.

It was a very good look on Julian. Julian bowed his head in concentration as he worked on Garak’s injured hands, and desire surged through Garak to know what Julian tasted like, to feel that body pressed close to his, hands warm and smooth against cool, ridged skin.

 _Enjoy your human_ , had been Tain’s snide send-off. Well, who was Garak to disobey a direct order?

“How did you override the door?” Julian asked.

Garak wasn’t sure Julian had ever asked him as many direct questions as he had this night. Even in his distant state, Garak knew better than to admit that he had security access codes of a much higher clearance than his cover warranted.

“It opened by its own. Are you sure you locked it? Perhaps you forgot, if you were expecting any other night visitors.”

“I am sure,” Julian said with a frown. “How’s the pain?”

There was none. A light tingling in Garak’s fingers was the only sign of the electrical surge designed to protect Dukat’s private files from outsiders. Ordinarily, Garak wouldn’t have been so sloppy, would have taken his time to disable the defense mechanisms. Unfortunately, there had been no time to waste. He had needed to know what Dukat had been told, and he needed to know it before Dukat himself had a chance to find out.

“I’ve never felt better,” Garak said, and it wasn’t even a lie.

He floated in the silence as Julian repaired him. Garak did not know how much time had passed, and he couldn’t bring himself to care. Out of habit, he cataloged the room, but there was no urgency to it, no sense of danger.

His hand tingled, but the rest of his muscles felt gloriously loose and warm.

Julian carefully bent the fingers one by one, testing their range of motion. Garak imagined with what delicious care the human might explore other parts of his body.

Finally, Julian looked up, vibrant eyes meeting Garak’s own.

“It will still be sore and tender,” Julian warned, “but your body will do the rest of the healing naturally.”

Garak stretched his arms out, marveling. He felt an itch somewhere, but couldn’t be certain where. It didn’t matter, anyway.

“And you’ll need to drink plenty of fluids,” Julian went on.

Garak’s mouth twinged with dryness at the reminder. Had he had anything to drink since this morning?

Right now, there were other things he wanted to do with his mouth.

“You make a wonderful doctor. However can I thank you?” Garak heated his voice with the implication that he has plenty of ways in mind.

Julian doesn’t so much as raise an eyebrow.

“You could let me keep the regenerator.”

 _Clever young man_ , Garak thought approvingly. It would be too expensive for him to acquire such a tool on his own.

“Have you been dropping more glasses at the bar?” It was asked innocently, as if Garak didn’t now what Julian got up to.

“We both have occupational hazards.”

That was the game, and Julian played it well. They neither lied or told the truth; they simply danced around each other.

“You are welcome to it if you’d like, my dear.” The itch and tingling and dry mouth were intensifying, but Garak refused to be distracted. He dropped his gaze to Julian’s beautiful expanse of bare chest. “If you need nightwear, you know you only have to place an order.”

“It’s too hot for me to sleep in more. My preferred temperature is a little cooler.”

“I’m not complaining. It certainly improves the view.”

Julian snorted.

“So I’ve been told.”

Garak was not at all fond of that comparison. He did not want to be in the same category as guls and glinns like Setok Boheeka, ogling a dabo spinner who couldn’t quite say no.

“Have you also been told that you have skin the color of taspar feathers?” Garak would never have admitted it out loud ordinarily, but in the evening’s haze Julian sparkled.

His smile was brilliant.

“No, I don’t think that’s come up.”

“You do,” Garak said, then added recklessly, “it’s beautiful.”

Something in his head was changing. A tapping, almost, behind his eyes. There had been a pounding headache there earlier, he recalled. More and more of earlier was beginning to take shape in his memory, intruding where it wasn’t wanted.

“That’s very kind of you to say.” Julian’s words were nothing special, nothing more than what he might have said at the bar, but Garak suspected there was fondness in his tone.

He suspected they were each fonder of the other than they had any right to be.

“There are a number of other kind things I could say too.”

“Such as?”

“Your eyes are rakha flowers.” It almost surprised Garak to hear the words drop from his lips. He had never even admitted that one to himself.

“Careful, or I might think you had other motivations in coming to my quarters.”

That was an incorrect chronology. Garak had plenty of ulterior motives, but they had only developed after he had entered Julian’s quarters, as every drop of pain bloomed into pleasure.

“Perhaps I did.” He would happily pretend so.

The ache behind his eyes was more insistent, now. He could feel the muscles in his shoulders coiling, tensing together.

Garak realized the cause too late: Julian had healed him, and now, the implant was shutting off.

“I don’t suppose there’s any use in asking how you got these burns?” Julian asked conversationally, unaware of the frantic feeling beginning to curl in Garak’s chest.

If the implant shut off-

An _if_ he didn’t dare contemplate.

“Do you ask all your patients this many questions?” Garak deflected. He would not tell Julian about tripping Dukat’s crude defense, any more than he was going to confess about the day spent battering the computer terminal in blind panic.

“Usually I have more of an understanding with my patients.”

“On the contrary, my dear, I think you understand me perfectly.” It hurt to smile now, the fog receding rapidly and leaving Garak with no protection from the stark reality.

Elim Garak was exiled from the Cardassian Union, effective immediately. Any attempts to return would result in arrest and sentencing. Execution, though not mentioned, was a foregone conclusion.

Julian was watching him too closely, seeing too much.

“Did you take any pain relief before coming here?”

Garak nearly laughed ( _only the implant in my head from the spy that exiled me_ ), but reeled in the impulse and replaced it with a lie.

“Triptacederine. Why do you ask?” His stomach was yowling now. Had he eaten anything?

“Your behavior is a little… different, than usual,” Julian observed warily.

“Maybe I decided it was time for a change.”

 _This brings me no pleasure, Elim_ , Tain had written.

Exile.

Tain had exiled him.

His stomach was roiling and he was an _exile_ and he might never- could never- see Tain again, see Mila, see children laughing at the amusement center in Lakat or regnars disappearing in the sand or the Institute of Art, the Imperial Plaza, _Cardassia_ -

 _Exile_ -

Panic pulsing through his body, Garak grasped at self-destruction. He placed his hands on Julian’s hips and pulled him in for a kiss, lips chasing heat and softness and something other than this chilling shadow consuming him.

 _If Tain is watching_ -

The _if_ was more painful than the sentence’s end. Garak could not imagine a world where Tain was not watching, where Tain did not even care enough to have him surveilled.

Julian was startled, but responded. He slipped his hands around Garak’s middle and for a single burning moment Garak’s mind was almost empty.

But then Julian pulled back, blinking rapidly, the rise and fall of his chest exaggerated.

“Time for a change,” he said, and it took a moment for Garak to realize that Julian was repeating him. “Tell me something, Garak. When all the Cardassians withdraw, what will you do?”

The question was too close, too aligned with his own thoughts, and what a fool Garak had been not to keep his distance, to fall for the weakness of sentiment.

“If all the Cardassians leave, logically I will be included,” he answered curtly.

“I’m sorry,” Julian said, but it reeked of pity, and the last thing Garak needed was pity from a man the Federation had discarded.

He felt a wave of resentment towards Julian, an exile reduced to dabo spinning for a slimy Ferengi and smiling sweetly to the arrogant filth of the Cardassian army, as hollow a life as Garak could imagine.

Was that what Tain had doomed Garak to become? He had raised Garak, molding him into a weapon to uphold the best of Cardassia by keeping at bay its worst, and now tossed him aside like so much trash into the gutter, to be left behind for the Federation to pick up. ( _Enjoy your human_.)

“The person you should be concerned for is yourself,” Garak said, smiling tightly and without mercy. “After all, when the Cardassians leave, who do you think will come next?”

Julian’s brow furrowed. He let go and took a step back. Garak released his grip on Julian’s hips, allowing it.

“The Bajorans will have their own planet back.”

Stupidly naive.

“Don’t be foolish, Julian, it doesn’t suit you. The Federation will come.”

Garak saw it, the moment that something inside Julian cracked. He hid it well, but not well enough to keep it from an interrogator.

“Why would they?” Julian asked, and Garak could hear the quiet terror.

“To spite their enemy. To make themselves feel superior, helping out the poor, pitiable Bajorans, to lure them into your own collective.”

That was the insidious nature of the Federation. They existed to consume, subsume, absorb.

“It’s not _my_ collective,” Julian argued. “I’m not from the Federation. I’m from-”

“Earth, specifically.” Julian’s whole body stilled. Garak pushed on. “Born while your family was visiting family in Sudan, I believe, although they officially resided in England at the time. They moved often after taking you to Adigeon Prime. I understand you made it as far as Invernia.”

“What are you talking about.” Julian’s voice was flat, none of the upturn that usually accompanied a human question. Garak pressed his advantage.

(If Julian was going to reveal his own insecurities, his own vulnerabilities, the favor could be returned.)

(This was the only thing in many miserable hours that Garak could control, power over someone else in a worse position than he.)

“You are Julian Subatoi Bashir, are you not?” Garak pronounced each consonant in the foreign name with care. “Former student at Starfleet Medical, current fugitive.”

Julian took another step back.

“Whatever you think you know, you don’t.”

How little Julian understood. Garak’s business was information, the scion of a man who always knew.

( _He knew you’d fail him._ )

(The voice was like an itch in Garak’s head, not allowing him to forget, needling the wound.)

“I’m curious how you escaped custody.” He kept his voice detached and impassive, clinical disinterest, no sign of the maelstrom within. “The records were rather unclear.”

To Julian’s credit, he stood tall and did not look away from Garak’s eyes. Starfleet training, Garak supposed.

It did not help the curdling resentment. Julian was strong and still as his world shattered, but Garak had fallen apart.

“How long have you known?” His voice was low and quiet.

It had taken two months for Garak to find out.

“Since the beginning, my dear.”

Julian exhaled between his teeth in an almost Cardassian hiss.

“Who have you told?”

Garak should have told Tain, it was his duty to tell Tain, but he hadn’t, he had thought one could keep a secret from Enabran Tain, a child’s mistake.

“No one,” Garak said, the painful truth.

Julian’s hands were clenched into balled fists at his sides.

“What do you want?”

Cardassia. Garak had only ever wanted to serve Cardassia, but he had failed-

He had _failed_ -

“Only a bit of enjoyable company, just as I said.” The calm control of his voice was a lie, disconnected from the turmoil of his body. Had he always been a person in such fragments?

Julian’s expression was dark and dangerous.

“Are you going to tell them where I am?”

“How would a humble tailor contact the Federation?”

 _You’re already an exile, might as well defect,_ piped up the unhelpful voice.

_To the Federation? Death first._

Then something happened that Garak could not have predicted (one more moment in the endless stream of horrific surprise that the day had become). In a blink he was shoved against a wall, Julian’s forearm against his throat, augmented speed and strength in action.

Julian could have become quite a weapon, in the right hands, just as Garak had. But he was inexperienced. The stance was wrong; Garak could have shoved him off easily.

“I don’t know what the hell you are, but you aren’t a simple tailor,” Julian spat.

The irony, of course, was that Garak was nothing else, anymore. Julian had caught the lie too late, after it had already become truth.

“Are you planning to injure me?” Garak asked more out of a sense of professional curiosity than real concern. He did not fear an amateur doctor, and he would welcome the reactivation of the implant, a return to peace.

To kill him would even be a mercy.

“That depends. What are you going to do?”

Garak could have taught him how to interrogate properly. As things stood now, Julian exhibited too much urgent fear. An interrogator had to be unhurried, with nothing but time.

( _Now, you have nothing but time._ )

“I haven’t done anything with this information yet. Why would I now?”

“Why tell me you know?” Julian challenged.

_Because Tain exiled-_

“Perhaps I simply wished to see how you would respond,” Garak said, somehow, his voice refusing to fail even as every other part of him faltered.

Julian released Garak, taking a step back and pointing to the door.

“Get out.”

Garak bowed low. ( _A knife in the back, make it quick_.)

“As you wish, my dear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea of Garak getting electrocuted trying to hack into Dukat's system comes from Dax getting burned while trying to shut down the insurrection response in "Civil Defense."


	4. Mission Impossible

Though Julian and Garak would not have guessed it, they passed the remainder of the night in much the same way.

N either of them slept. Julian  tore out his hair and counted leks and  thought about  shuttle  ride to the next somewhere,  the next station far from Federation space that might not notice one  lone traveler passing through.  Garak  paced around his shop and  tried to swallow the overwhelming panic, the feeling of walls closing in,  the knowledge that he had nowhere to go.

T hey both contemplated the same memory,  without knowing the other was doing so.  A shared lunch spent arguing  Iloja’s  _Odes_ ,  which had been  written in exile in Vulcan deserts  as he waited for repatriation:

_In your embrace again I’ll breathe, til then my heart is still._

_In sand and sorrow I’ll lie buried, my eyes turned homewards still._

And Julian’s response:

_If they exiled him, I say good riddance to them._

Garak turned the words over and over again, trying to understand, as Julian batted them aside and wondered if the Federation really would come, if he could leave Bajor after how greatly he had grown to care for its fate.

They both  tried to wrap their minds around the enormity of the question they faced:  _What comes next_ ?

When morning came, Julian had made two decisions. One, he knew that he needed to confirm whether or not Garak intended to turn him over to the Federation or to some Cardassian authority. Two, before he could do that, he had to go to Quark’s.

When he arrived, the door was unlocked but the place was nearly deserted. The only life came from Rom and Quark arguing.

“Brother, I rrreally think you should close the bar,” Rom was stuttering. That piqued Julian’s interest immediately, but he did not have time to linger and eavesdrop.

W ithout turning around, Quark barked, “Go away, we’re closed.”

“I came by about the latinum you owe me,” Julian replied, unfazed.

_ T hat _ got Quark’s attention. He nearly leaped off of the barstool and whirled around.

“Your wages is generous, more than fair, and not open to negotiation.”

“I know.” Julian had read the contract before signing it, and knew that someone hoping to argue a raise out of a Ferengi would have better luck selling tribbles to Horta. “You owe me five strips from last pay day, for the extra shift I covered for Etana.”

“I owe you no such thing. You were paid in full.”

“Actually, brother-” Rom was quelled with a ferocious look. Julian was not about to be so easily cowed. Five strips was not an enormous amount of latinum in the grand scheme of Quark’s profits, but if Julian had to run from the station, it could mean the difference between life and death if it was enough to purchase a transport ticket or a meal.

“You owe me five strips,” Julian repeated, “and wage theft is punishable under Cardassian law. If you don’t hand it over, I’ll have to report you to Odo.”

Wage theft was, in fact, the least of  the security concerns when it came to Quark,  but Odo would take it seriously.  That was why Julian liked the shapeshifter, even though he maintained an uneasy skepticism towards anyone who worked in the ba r.

Q uark  scowled.

“I don’t think you need to involve security over a measly five slips.”

“Five _strips_ ,” Julian repeated forcefulyl. Quark threw up his hands.

“This is how it starts,” he complained to Rom. “One little announcement, and next thing you know everything's descended into anarchy.”

“That’s why I said you should close the bar,” Rom reminded him, but Quark waved off the suggestion.

Worry twisted in Julian’s gut.

“What announcement?”

“My sources tell me the Cardassians have announced the date.” Quark always slightly puffed with pride when he got to use the phrase _my sources_. “They’re calling it The Day of Withdrawal. Every Cardassian citizen has to be off Bajor. If you stay behind, you get left behind.”

Julian tried to tell himself to be rational. He had known that the Occupation was not going to last forever, and the signs had been there that change was coming. This was, objectively, a good thing. Bajor had fought hard for its freedom, and deserved the chance to live in peace.

Yet in the back of his mind a niggling voice repeated Garak’s words: _who do you think will come next_?

It took more threats and arguing and references to various rules of acquisition and performative sighing about the state of things, but Julian did win his latinum, enabling him to move on to his second, less public reason for visiting Quark’s.

Julian had long wondered how Kira was able to visit his quarters in the middle of the night, she was assigned to the heavily-guarded so-called community quarters. She certainly hadn't presented the guards with a work permit, nor had any of the other Resistance members engaged in sabotage on the station outside of scheduled shifts. So how were they getting around?

He knew better than to ask, but Julian thought he had hit upon the explanation: the vents. Ducts ran through the entire station, like Jeffries Tubes on a star ship, accessible simply by removing the right panel. The Cardassians didn’t enter them unless there was an engineering emergency to address or a particularly stubborn vole colony to remove, and doing so triggered no alarms or perimeter alerts. It was a glaring oversight, when noticed, but neither Dukat nor his subordinates had noticed it.

Julian needed more information about Garak and exactly what level of danger he posed, and it was not going to come from the man himself. That left subterfuge. If Garak had told anyone Julian’s real identity, he had most likely done so using a computer terminal, given his attitude towards the other station residents who he might have told in person (which ranged from apathy to hatred). A computer terminal could be hacked.

Of course, Julian couldn’t waltz right into Garak’s shop and start poking around. The front door was always heavily locked when Garak wasn’t present.

The vents, on the other hand, were unmonitored. And if Julian was correct, he could enter the wall near Quark’s and find his way to one unassuming tailor shop without being seen.

That much, Julian had calculated correctly. It was difficult to pry the panel off without a tool, but he was able to slip in and click it back in place quickly enough. (He had practiced, in his quarters.) The fit was tight, requiring him to crawl on hands and knees, but future backache was far from the top of Julian’s list of concerns.

Helpfully, whoever had fabricated the wall panels had labeled them. Cardassians, after all, were fastidious about record-keeping. Even with a limited grasp of the language, Julian could at least recognize the word promenade.

There wouldn’t be a label for individual shops; it wouldn’t make sense, if they changed name or ownership. But they were marked by unit number, and Julian conjured up a mental image to count how many offices, storefronts, or other units existed between Quark’s and Garak’s places of business.

It was dark, musty, and smelled like something Julian didn’t even want to begin to guess, but it worked.

He emerged into the back corner of a closed, unlit tailor shop, with the proprietor nowhere in sight.


	5. There Is A World Elsewhere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Predictably, Julian gets caught.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title comes from a monologue from William Shakespeare’s “Coriolanus” in Act 3 Scene 3. Coriolanus speaks to the Romans who he feels have wrongly exiled him from the home he fought to protect:  
> You common cry of curs! I banish you;  
> And here remain with your uncertainty!  
> Let every feeble rumour shake your hearts!  
> Your enemies, with nodding of their plumes,  
> Fan you into despair! Have the power still  
> To banish your defenders; till at length  
> Still your own foes, deliver you as most  
> Abated captives to some nation  
> That won you without blows! Despising,  
> For you, the city, thus I turn my back:  
> There is a world elsewhere.

Garak’s head hurt.

It was the least of his problems, but it was the easiest to consider, and so he indulged in the feeling that he would otherwise have ignored.

After spending the night pacing in his shop and thinking in circles, Garak had come to one conclusion: if he didn’t leave the room, he was going to go mad. With that one purpose in mind, he had returned to his quarters for kanar and another round of fruitless, spiraling worry.

Garak had not panicked like this in many years. He had learned by necessity how to keep a hidden advantage tucked away for moments of danger, how to fight a situation back under control. He could blackmail and extort and threaten and lie and keep himself safe from almost anything- except Enabran Tain.

And Tain, knowing this, had delivered the killing blow.

 _You should have killed my mother before I was born, Enabran_ . Garak toasted the ghost of his father with the familiar refrain. _Then you wouldn’t have to go to all this trouble now_.

When the alert sounded, the distraction was almost a welcome relief. Life signs in the closed tailor shop was a solvable problem, something Garak knew how to deal with. He quickly tapped into the internal sensors for more information.

One intruder, which meant it wasn’t an official military endeavor, but that didn’t rule out some personal petty scheme of Dukat’s. The Prefect had been trying to have Garak killed for years.

Except, the life signs were human.

Given that there was only one human on Terok Nor, that meant it was Julian.

Possibilities flitted through Garak’s mind. Perhaps he was wrong and Julian was, in fact, a spy, or a sleeper agent who had only recently been activated. The backstory would have been fabricated, left for Garak to find, or even true- truths made the best lies. If Tain had sent Julian as a test, perhaps it was now time for him to finish the job. (That would be convoluted, even for Tain, but Garak had learned not to put anything past him.)

If not connected to the Order, it could be that Julian was taking the practical next step to prevent exposure by eliminating the threat. It would be poorly planned of him to try and do so when Garak wasn’t even in, unless he was leaving a bomb. Anyone who had contacts with the Bajoran Resistance certainly had access to improvised explosive devices. That would be an ignominious end; perhaps Tain would even be pleased by it. He wouldn’t have exiled Garak if he had meant for Garak’s death to have meaning.

Compared to the possible life stretching out before Garak, death at Julian’s hands was nearly a tempting prospect. It would feel like service, sacrificing himself so that Julian’s secret would not be discovered. And his last sight would be something beautiful.

When Garak arrived, there was no sign of Julian, but the computer quickly informed him that it was still registering a presence. That meant either that Julian had hidden himself quickly, or that the sensor system had been sabotaged to lure Garak in. Prepared for both possibilities, he kept his disruptor hidden and began a slow, measured sweep of the room, starting at the front.

He had made it past the first two racks of clothes when another alert went off, the two tone chime telling him that someone was attempting an override access code on the door. Garak had taken the sensible precaution of disabling that feature, but he didn’t want for it to be widely known, so he discreetly gave the door permission to open and turned to meet the new intruder.

The doors swished open to reveal Dukat.

(That, Garak reflected sourly, was the absolute last thing this day needed.)

“I hope you’re happy with yourself,” Dukat said without preamble.

That was not the opening he would have chosen if he knew about Garak’s exile, which meant that Garak had made the right decision in removing Dukat’s messages from the system, even if it had ultimately cost him his dermal regenerator, his dignity, and his relationship with Julian.

It did not offer any insight into what Dukat did happen to be talking about.

“I usually am,” Garak lied, as if he wasn’t coming apart at the seams. He would hold himself together through sheer force of spite; he would not fall apart in front of Dukat, of all people. “Is there any particular reason you ask?”

“I know what you’ve been up to,” Dukat spat. That was almost never true; Dukat was shockingly dense.

“I should hope so. I’ve had a tailor shop on your station for at least a year now,” Garak said lightly.

“You’ve been feeding lies about me and the Occupation back to the Order.”

Ah, so that was what this was about. Dukat had lost the battle about the evacuation and needed someone to blame. Garak provided a convenient target.

“Even if that were true- and you certainly don’t need my help to look incompetent- you forget that the Order simply provides information. The civilian government and Central Command make their own decisions. You can’t blame me simply because you don’t like what their decision is.” Getting in the jab at Dukat’s abilities made Garak feel better, but was not perhaps the wisest move.

“I want you off my station,” Dukat spat.

Garak widened his eyes theatrically.

“ _Your_ station?”

“I mean Cardassia’s.”

There were a few points that could always be made against Dukat. He was short-sighted, he was narrow-minded, and he consistently valued personal power above service to the state. His father had shared the same failings.

“Not for much longer, I’m afraid,” Garak reminded him, just to twist the knife a little. Dukat stepped forward in what was clearly intended to be a menacing manner.

“I will make every day that you remain here worse than the last,” he threatened.

As usual, Dukat failed to comprehend that he could not truly threaten Garak unless he had the power to hurt him- and Garak’s greatest weakness, sentiment, was not something Dukat understood enough to target. The Prefect was the kind of man who had heard the old saying, _joy is vulnerability_ , but had never actually been endangered by what he desired.

Garak had.

“I’m sure you’ll try,” he responded flatly. “Did you need something, or did you come in here just to bluster at me? Because I have customers to attend to.”

“Oh?” Dukat scoffed. “Where are they?”

Garak angled his head to the back of the shop and raised his volume.

“Julian,” he called, “you can come out of the fitting room now.”

_Shit_ , Julian thought. It was not a productive or helpful thought, but even an enhanced brain brain had the unfortunate human tendency to short-circuit when he needed.

He had not intended to stay long enough to eavesdrop, but had known there was no chance of sneaking back through the vent undetected. His best hope had been to wait Garak out.

There was no chance of that now.

The seconds ticked by, the ever-present calculating undercurrent of Julian’s mind counting each one. There did not seem to be anything else to do, so he straightened his shoulders, took a deep breath for courage, and emerged.

Dukat looked amused, which was just as insufferable as all of his other expressions.

“I wouldn’t dream of interrupting your time together,” Dukat said, and it sounded smug even though he had no reason to be. “I will see you tonight, Julian.”

He said it to try and needle Garak, of that Julian was sure. Dukat wanted Garak to be jealous, or just annoyed, and he trusted that Julian wouldn’t reveal the real reason they were meeting (to review the last details of the Tora family’s departure to Lissepia).

He was correct that Julian wouldn’t tell a soul about Ziyal. Whether or not Dukat was right that it would aggravate Garak, Julian wasn’t prepared to say.

When Dukat left, they stood in silence. Julian waited warily, unsure whether he should attempt to account for his presence, or if Garak would slide into their old game of not saying anything. He was unpredictable now, and that made him all the more dangerous.

It was Garak who eventually spoke first.

“If you wanted new clothes, all you had to do was say so.”

So, that was the game. Pretend it hadn’t happened at all.

It would have been safer for Julian to play along. Unfortunately, his curiosity won out over self-preservation.

“What is the Order?” he asked. He had never wondered so fiercely who, exactly, Garak was. He was not a tailor; his business was a farce, or a hobby. He was not military, and he was not a subordinate of Dukat.

“For someone you spends so much time with Ferengi, you should have a better grasp of the Rules of Acquisition,” Garak chided. “Rule 208- the only thing more dangerous than a question, is an answer.”

Nor would Julian believe whatever answer Garak gave. The real clue lay in his conversation with Dukat. Assuming that Dukat knew the truth and Garak was not lying to him as well, this mysterious Order was powerful and fed information to the other governing bodies of Cardassia.

It was unlikely to be the sort of thing a Cardassian soldier would be willing to discuss with an outsider. If Julian really wanted to know the details, perhaps he could ask Odo about it.

Assuming that the countdown hadn’t already started for him to escape the station.

“Did you tell the Order about me?” Julian demanded.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I make very poor choices,” Garak responded with a self-deprecating smile.

Well, Julian couldn’t argue with that. Whatever Garak had done to get his hands burnt had been a poor choice, and whatever substance he had taken before visiting Julian, doubly so.

At least now he appeared to be sober, although Julian suspected that meant he was more likely to be lying.

“Why should I believe you?”

Garak pretended to consider this for a moment, then pronounced, “Logically speaking, you shouldn’t.”

Talking to the mannequins would have been more productive.

“Why did you kiss me?” Julian asked, more softly. Garak didn’t know- couldn’t know- how long it had been since someone had kissed Julian. There had been a few scattered encounters on other stations, quick and desperate and raw, but they were about meeting a need without being noticed. You could fuck someone without paying any attention to their face.

None of them had involved glowing metaphors about his eyes.

Garak looked down and straightened a pile of fabric on a table as he spoke.

“It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Julian bit back a sigh of frustration. What else had he expected?

“You’re not giving very helpful answers.”

“You’re not asking the right questions.”

“What should I ask, then?”

Garak lifted a mound of something green and satiny and shook it out before refolding it primly.

“Do you have anything to fear from me?” he offered, without looking up.

Julian watched his hands move with practiced efficiency.

“Do I?”

There was a short pause as Garak set down the neat square. He met Julian’s eyes before speaking again.

“No, I don’t think so. Not anymore. I don’t care enough for the Federation to tell them where you are.”

That sounded like the truth, but it didn’t address all of Julian’s concerns.

“And the Cardassians?” he prompted.

Garak ran a hand over the cloth on the table.

“They’ll be leaving soon. What do they care about one human left behind on Bajor?”

Julian was learning that the trick with Garak was to try and read behind the lines, to pay attention to the things left unsaid.

“They, not we?”

Garak flashed an echo of his familiar knowing smile.

“Semantics.”

Julian felt a jolt of understanding accompanied by an impulsive urge to touch Garak’s hand, but forced himself to stand still.

“How would the Bajorans feel, hypothetically, if there were someone from the Order left behind on the station?”

“Hypothetically speaking, I imagine they would be less than thrilled.”

Julian compromised with himself; he placed a hand on the edge of the table and leaned forward.

“Sounds like a dangerous situation,” he observed.

“It may be.” Even at close distance, Garak’s face was unreadable. “You know, I’ve been thinking about a conversation we had, regarding Cardassian literature.”

“Oh?”

“You asked if I would still be a patriot, if the state cast me aside.”

“Would you?”

Garak’s voice was quiet.

“I don’t know what else there is to be.”

Julian wished he could say, in that moment, that losing a home didn’t hurt, that exile had no impact on identity, that there was nothing to fear.

It would have been a monstrous lie.

“You would have to find something else to live for. Some other cause to devote yourself to.” Julian had come alive again since deciding to remain on Terok Nor. Every dangerous choice he made, to support the Resistance or treat Dukat’s illegitimate daughter, he made because it helped someone, or a group of people. Healing again gave him purpose.

Garak took a small step backwards.

“It’s getting late,” he said, even though it wasn’t really. “I shouldn’t keep you from your shift. After all, who knows how many of them you’ll have left?”

It could have been a reminder of the upcoming Day of Withdrawal. It could also have been a threat. With Garak, it was hard to tell.

Julian straightened up and dropped his hand from the table back to his side. There was a part of him that wanted to argue, but what would be the point? Garak lashed out when cornered.

There was no reason to trust Garak’s assurance that he posed no danger to Julian, but Julian was inclined to. Of course, that would not protect him if (when?) the Federation did come. But until then, there were still people on Terok Nor who needed Julian’s help.

Julian left Garak alone in the tailor shop with his own thoughts, both of them contemplating the uneasy wait ahead.

Garak told himself that he was being prudent, rather than cowardly. He thought of taspar feathers and rakha flowers, of Julian and Cardassia equally out of reach, and considered the merits of upending the entire table.

This one day. All he had to do was survive this one day, and then he’d plan for the next tomorrow. Life lived one day at a time, until the station changed hands and Garak had to build for himself a new role in a new world. He had time to decide what that would be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This outline and even the prose of this ending has changed so many times. So. Many. Times. I still don't know that I'm 100% happy with it, but I didn't quite like them getting together at this point. Things are so uncertain, and Julian has only just realized the depth of what he doesn't know about Garak.  
> After this, the next installment is going to be Federation time.


End file.
